


Tongue Twisters

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a possible concussion; Harold rules it out by way of a game of tongue twisters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tongue Twisters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KRyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/gifts).



> For kRyn, who prompted: _perhaps John's gotten thumped (concussed?) and Harold is testing his cognitive abilities by having him repeat tongue twisters. If you go the rinch route, literal tongue action in the 'testing' phase_

The library was cool and blissfully quiet as John ascended the steps. He turned right at the top and felt the typical rush of relief and _home_ when he immediately saw Harold. The man was walking towards John, first aid kit already laid out on the table behind him.

 

"That's a nasty bump you have there." He gently cupped John's chin and tilted it down and to the left so he could inspect the damage to John's right temple. John felt fine, just sore and tired, which was par for the course in this job.

 

"I'm okay, it's a scratch. Head wounds always bleed more."

 

"I did hear you hit the floor, you know. You could have a concussion. Come and sit down." He let go of John's chin and tugged at his sleeve instead. John tried not to smile too much from the simple pleasure Finch's mother-henning gave him, because if he did Harold really might think he'd gone loopy. He usually pretended to be grumpy and impatient about the whole thing. And sometimes he really felt grumpy and impatient. Not tonight. This time he was content to let Harold fuss over him.

 

Harold got him settled in his desk chair and began asking him a lot of questions, testing his short and long term memory, getting him to follow his finger to check his pupil response. "You don't seem to be dizzy. Headache?"

 

"A little." John admitted. "Nothing major."

 

"Hmm." Harold said, communicating exactly how much he believed that. "Any nausea?" He queried, while pulling on sterile gloves.

 

"Nope."

 

With careful fingers Harold brushed John's hair away from the cut. His lips were slightly parted as he worked at cleaning up the blood and dirt. John could feel his steady breaths breezing over the wound. "One final challenge, to ensure your cognitive abilities are unaffected: tongue twisters. Go."

John blinked at him, surprised, but took the odd request in his stride. "Okay...How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood?"

 

"Good. Continue."

 

"...I can't recall any more."

 

Finch tutted at him.

 

John cast around in his distant childhood memories. "She sells sea shells by the sea shore?" he tried, half-heartedly.

 

"That's a woefully easy one."

 

"You think of some, then. And I'll repeat them after you."

 

"Alright." Harold paused for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth ticked up. "If you notice this notice, you will notice that this notice is not worth noticing."

 

John laughed and did it in a stupid German accent, playfully. Finch failed to show any amusement, but he didn't suggest John's mental faculties were impaired either.

 

"Red leather, yellow leather. Five times."

 

John said it.

 

Finch rolled his eyes. "Faster than that, John."

 

John tried again, increasingly aware that it was possible to slip up, concussion or no, but he made it through and Finch nodded approvingly.

 

"Excited executioner exercising his excising powers excessively."

 

John narrowed his eyes as he processed the content of that one. "Are these meant to be in any way a commentary on me?"

 

"No." He waited for John to repeat after him and then delivered another. "The storm starts when the drops start dropping. When the drops stop dropping then the storm starts stopping."

 

"Now that one sounds like you."

 

"How so?" Finch was concentrating on clearing away the lingering tracks of blood which had trickled down John's face with an antiseptic wipe.

 

"You tend to say ominous things like 'there's a storm on the horizon, Mr. Reese.' You have a flair for the dramatic that way."

 

Finch scoffed. "Look who's talking."

 

"I _am_." John murmured, and made it obvious in his eyes that he was drinking in every detail of Harold's face. It was a bit of a clumsy come-on, and if he hadn't recently been thumped on the head he could have thought of a better line.

 

Harold's fingers paused briefly, in the process of applying a small butterfly strip. Then he continued right on with the next one: "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers."

 

John dutifully recited his way through that, and then one about pheasant pluckers, which he was very tempted to deliberately mispronounce just to wind Finch up.

 

After a while he began to suspect this was less about testing for the concussion and more about Finch showing off how many of these he could remember from the top of his genius brain. And possibly just torturing John with his voice. By the time Harold got to 'Six slippery snails slid slowly seaward', John had had enough of watching his tongue curl around the syllables and instead pushed forward to taste it, demonstrating much better uses to which his agile tongue could be applied. Mercifully, Finch stopped talking and kissed him back. John spread his legs and coaxed Harold to stand between them, and they happily explored each other's mouths for a time, until Finch's neck and back began to protest at leaning down. John stroked Harold's cheek with his thumb and let him straighten up. Harold peeled off the gloves and threw them in the trash while John got to his feet. He went to Finch again, pecked the top of his head and the side of his nose, the knot of his tie. Harold slid his arms around John's back, under his suit. "You'll be right as rain in a day or two."

 

"Might need to keep me awake tonight anyway, Finch." John quipped, though he knew full well that wasn't actually necessary.

 

Finch's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "That won't be a problem."

**Author's Note:**

> Finch would like to point out that the reason he knows so many of these by heart is because they're left over from when he was teaching the Machine to lip read.


End file.
